


Carnevale

by hobofaerie



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Breakup, Gamzee is not a responsible father, Gen, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, or moirail, really he shouldn't be in anybody's quadrant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobofaerie/pseuds/hobofaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caliborn yells so much that it’s almost like being around Karkat again.</p>
<p>Almost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carnevale

Karkat stares at you, eyes wide and shocked and murky with filling pigment, when you call it off. You’d asked him to meet you here but you’re only half-looking at him, slouching and staring at the cold metal of the meteor corridor’s walls and running a slow tongue over pointed teeth. Teeth sharp as any fishtroll; sharp as Terezi’s when you tear each other to pieces with a hate that’s starting to feel more like _desperation_.

“What,” is his half-croaked response, and you chuckle low in your throat.

“Don’t need nobody to motherfuckin’ _tame_ me, _brother_ ,” you say, and there’s a small part of you that hurts when you speak but it’s so goddamn _freeing_. “I’ve got too much hidden and nothin’ to heal. What’s the fuckin’ point? Too little too late, and these days we don’t motherfuckin’ know each other at all.”

“Gamzee, I.”

He swallows. Blinks.

His arms are drawn tight around himself, like some kind of hug, and he’s so _small_. You’ve both grown since you went zooming off towards the sun, but his growth can’t be more than a few inches compared to you shooting up and up and up. It ain’t like he’s gotta crane his neck to see you but any kind of proper conversation’s gotta take place with you both sitting or things start looking pretty fucking comical.

His voice shakes when he speaks again, a little louder than socially acceptable only neither of you’ve ever care about shit like that before. “I’m not trying to… to _tame_ you. Or whatever other stupid shit might be running through your thinkpan. But you’re one of my best friends and I _care_ about you, you stupid sack of greasepaint! What’s wrong with that?

“I know about you and Terezi,” he says, and if you had a list of arguments you thought Karkat’d bring up, _that_ definitely wasn’t gonna be on it. You fucking _told_ Strider not to tell, but…

“And I don’t _care_. Whatever makes you happy, man. As long as she’s happy too. And if you’re happy crawling around in air ducts and hiding from everyone, then go right the fuck ahead. But maybe you should think about how we don’t know each other anymore _because you don’t let me in_! You act all secretive and weird, _especially_ after we went to that dreambubble and you got a hold of that god tier costume. I don’t even know what’s going _on_ with you anymore, Gamzee, and I want to help you or at least talk but it’s like you don’t even want to be _around_ me anymore.”

“Every motherfucker’s gotta change.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can see that,” he says harshly, and that twinge of pity stirs up just a bit before being crushed under whispers of _it’s gotta be sometime_ and _motherfucker doesn’t deserve someone like you anyway_ and _you’re going where he can’t motherfuckin’ follow_.

“I guess maybe you’re right. Maybe this moirallegiance was a _stupid_ fucking _joke_ right from the very beginning.”

Sometimes you wish he’d just had the fucking guts to end it right there on the meteor. Any _other_ troll would’ve, what with you being out of your fucking mind with bloodlust and blasphemy. But he’d drawn you in, the motherfucking sap – couldn’t kill you but it ain’t like he can _keep_ you, either.

And anyway, it ain’t like you were particularly good for him in the first place.

But when he walks away, keeping well away from you even though the corridors are narrow as shit, you can see his shoulders are shaking and his hands are balled into fists and you almost – _almost_ – want to go after him.

 

It’s half a sweep of hiding and sneaking and soda-drenched shenanigans throughout the meteor before you take the chance to experiment with what you’ve gotten. Strider would never have let you near his timetables even if you’d half a mind to pester him over it, but Aradia’s ectoclone’s got a spin of time travel all her own.

Damara’d sidled up to you, hands close enough to run down the nubs of ribcage that’ve always shown through your skin a little more than’s healthy. (You’ve never had the right kind of nutrition, living on sopor and junk for most of your life and only what you can scrounge from leftovers after everyone’s gone for the rest.) But she’d taken a liking to you, she’d said – or at least you _think_ that’s what the crazy sister said, ‘cause hell if Tavros ever taught you enough motherfucking East Alternian dialect to get by anywhere but in a wiggler’s cartoon. And you’ve up and forgotten most of that.

But it ain’t like Damara talks like a kawaii motherfucker anyway – she’s all curses and too-sharp smiles and obscene gestures that rival Kurloz’s fingers when they dance.

(You wonder if they’ve pailed, and then force that thought as far from your pan as possible.)

She’d leaned in close, one smooth leg resting straight against your bulge as she’d backed you up against an old broken computer bank. _Too_ close – you could smell gravedirt breath and see sweat glinting off lashes lined with too much makeup. She’d whispered something that you couldn’t understand before settling a music box in your hands, and slunk off with her hips swishing something fierce beneath that too-short skirt.

You’d hopped straight into the ablution trap and scrubbed yourself raw the moment you got back to the meteor – it’s not like you weren’t full of motherfucking gratitude but even _you’ve_ got limits. You’d gotten your ticket away, though, and that was all that mattered.

You’d kept the music box near, hardly ever letting it out of your sight, but you’d never taken it for a practice ride.

‘Til now.

Ten seconds ‘til it’s time, and you hear a shout of “ _Jump!_ ” You’ve all gotta get off before the impact comes, so you throw yourself forward, same as the rest of them.

Except you shoot differently, not through space but through _time_. A tinkling melody starts to play, one that’s sweet and soft and reminds you of gruff honks and the ocean, but your feet are glued to the surface of the meteor as all the colors you can see start to streak. You fly ‘til you feel shredded around the edges, a rough-edged miracle, and you streak like a star to the place you’re supposed to be.

_There isn’t any other way_ , whispers the little voice in your head.

And all you say back is _shut the fuck up_.

 

You open your eyes and everything is dead.

Not dead like when you got all uppity righteous and started slaughtering all your friends; no, this is just the normal dead of neglect, which you know all too well seeing as it was pretty much how you lived your whole motherfuckin’ _life_. Except at least you had pie to temper the madness, to keep you in check – no elixir for land, you guess, ‘cause the meteor you rode in on is empty and settling down before a sun fiercer than the one that shone above home.

You hiss in pain at the light, but the light doesn’t give a fuck, going on shining in the blissful way that means it’s pretty much given up and just goes on ‘cause it don’t know what else to do.

You guess you kind of know the feeling, and pull out the godtier, because at least the plushy fabric’ll give you _some_ kind of protection.

And that’s when you see the egg.

All red and green, striped like candy and smelling of sugar, and you guess that if you’ve ever had something close to a second chance then this is it. Leastaways, that’s what you’ve been up and told by your stitch-lipped dancestor, and it ain’t like _you’re_ dead so you’re pretty fucking sure this is where you’re meant to be.

You pick the egg up, and it gives a shiver, a crack splitting the smooth shell. And out flops a little green _thing_ , all slimy from the inside of its incubator and peering up at you with bugfuck crazy eyes.

You give a hesitant smile and a soft honk of a laugh, and think that maybe you kind of want to try out being a dad.

 

You always thought you'd do it different, but you guess the old goat taught you more than you know, cause you scram as soon as you can, half shamed by just what kind of creature you've up and raised. The little girl was sweet as sugar but the brother was anything but, all claws and fangs reaching ever too close to your bulge, and in the end you just couldn’t _do_ it. You’re a miserable motherfucking excuse for everything – moirail, kismesis, and not like you ever _expected_ to be some kind of dad but you certainly ain’t a pro at that, either.

You lock the kid away with enough candy and stardust and meat to last however long it’ll take the lil’ fucker to grow up…

And you wait.

Alone on that meteor, surrounded by death on all sides, you wait.

 

Sometimes you think about going back, now that you’ve up and rid yourself of yet another responsibility that you failed at, like that’s all you can really do in life. Hell, if _Karkat_ says he’s a failure then he’s got another thing coming, because at least your former palebro never fucking quit. Kept on trying, even when things looked bleaker and darker than the fiercest hatemance, and you guess that’s one of the things you always admired about him.

But he’d never let you back, now, not after how you carried on, and you really can’t fuckin’ blame him. Nowhere for you to go; nobody to want you except when the girl sometimes wanders out in her cute green suit to watch the clouds pass by. You wonder what she’s thinking, chained so that she only knows the small bit of world she can see. Looks around, she does, and you creep out of her line of sight, just in case she up and remembers the motherfucker who ran away. You wonder if she misses you, but you’ll never fucking know.

You’re _very_ good at hiding, after all.

Nothing can hide from a motherfuckin’ black hole, though, and you learn this all too well when your boy sets one spinning in his mad quest to conquer _everything_.

You guess you can kind of admire his ambition, at least.

The whole damn planet up and vanishes, you spinning alongside it, and all you can really think of is _guess there’s no goin’ back now_.

 

You’ve rebuilt yourself best as you can in the time you’ve been alone, but it ain’t easy when you’ve got the living messiah right in front of your oculars and you’re dripping more blood than you’ve ever spilled with your own two hands. Oh, you’ve no clue if he up and remembers you or not, but pain and your body seem to be a holy union he’s only too happy to encourage. You’re bleeding from places you didn’t even know _could_ bleed from. And he just keeps shooting, laughing all along, til he gives a start and starts arguing with… himself?

Is that sweet girl still alive inside him? You don’t have a fucking clue how she could be, but whoever wants you alive for him is a beautiful motherfuckin’ soul and you’re glad to have them on your side.

Your bloody, bloody side.

And so instead of killing you he takes you along with him, away from the wrecked shell of the meteor. You walk walk walk through worlds that look half dead from neglect and fire and the ravages of time, and with every new green man he picks up you feel more and more alone.

 

Caliborn yells so much that it’s almost like being around Karkat again.

Almost.

He’s cranky and ornery and bitches about every little thing, and when he isn’t yelling he’s ignoring you, hell bent on world domination or whatever he’s actually trying to do. You’re not too motherfucking sure, because hell if actually Caliborn knows _himself_. It’s all you can do to try and make yourself useful, because if he’s noticing you at least there’s some kind of care there, and you’d rather be hated than feel nothing at all.

Some days you regret, but if there’s any kind of miracle in the universe that you wanna keep a belief in, it’s the one that’s telling you this is how shit’s supposed to go _down_.

 

He’s always yelling at someone you can’t see: someone who calls you Caliborn’s _guide_ but you’re anything fucking but. He hangs onto every motherfucking word that invisible brother spouts, sopor sweet and just as addictive. It ain’t his sister, that’s for sure; someone neither of you’ve ever known for flesh, but you can’t give the slightest fuck as long as he keeps sayin’ you’re needed.

But are you, really? The green fuckers all got somethin’ special; time and luck and too many quadrants for you to count.

What can you give him? What can you give this green devil of a messiah that he can’t get anywhere else? You don’t up and fuckin’ know anymore.

 

And you sit on a cliff on the edge of a dying sea, surrounded by chattering felt men and the Lord of Time, and think that prophecy or not, you should’ve just fucking _stayed._


End file.
